Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
The rose said:
O lady of beauty, when your fingertips touched me,
my colors trembled… and I became more beautiful than I knew myself to be.
Am I still a rose… or have you recreated beauty within me?
She said:
You are beauty—
yet when you embrace touch with love,
you bloom beyond what you were meant to be.
The rose said:
When I breathed from your chest,
my fragrance blushed and melted into your breath,
and I returned sweeter… as if I were born within you.
She said:
For the soul, O rose,
when it is true, perfumes everything it passes through.
The rose said:
As for my thorns—the masters of harshness—
they have abandoned their edge and bowed to your مقام,
whispering in reverence:
Give me longing… and I shall give you nectar.
She said:
And I, O rose,
give you nothing but love,
and ask of you only to remain a witness
to a heart that has learned nothing but fragrance.
The rose said:
Let me be in your hands a rosary of colors,
glorifying your name at every dawn,
reciting your love at every dusk.
She said—her voice like a prayer:
If love is a blessing,
then be for me within it a sign.
And if longing is a prayer,
then be for me its endless devotion.
